


Shoot First

by threewalls



Category: Bloody Monday
Genre: First Time, Friendship, Gunplay, M/M, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:44:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Otoya likes guys. Fujimaru likes guns. They find this out by accident.  (Set post-Season 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shoot First

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Lynndyre for beta and checking my gun terminology. Any remaining errors are my own.

Otoya's heartbeat is still racing even though the danger's passed. He's still tense on adrenaline even though Fujimaru's gun is thrown who knows where, but now he can feel the sweat licking the backs of his knees and the air chill under his arms. 

Fujimaru's skin is flushed above the V neckline of his shirt, the colour deepening up the stretched column of his neck, up to where Fujimaru had thrown his free arm across his eyes almost as soon as he'd stopped struggling. If Otoya was that hard and pinned under a friend, he'd be embarrassed, too.

"Don't worry," he says. "I know people at university who experiment."

Fujimaru's arm drops to the floor, free wrist mirroring the one Otoya is still holding, still pinning to the floor. The pulse in Fujimaru's wrist may be racing, but his body is relaxed. Otoya's learnt what muscles feel like when they're tensed in wait. 

If he focuses on Fujimaru's racing pulse, he doesn't need to think about the buckle of Fujimaru's fallen jeans cutting into his calf. If he focuses on Fujimaru's face, he doesn't need to look down.

"With guns?" Fujimaru's eyebrows disappear up under his bangs.

"With men." 

That's when Otoya's mind catches up with his mouth. He rolls to the side and to his feet.

In the harsh silence of their breathing, Otoya can now hear the chirpy soundtrack of the anime Fujimaru was watching when Otoya walked in, saw the gun in his friend's hand, muzzle pointed up under Fujimaru's chin-- and overreacted. There's a breathy mature female voice telling a younger male voice that she doesn't care how much he begs. When Otoya looks-- why does he look? -- he sees that she's got short, dark hair and a sidearm that glints matte gunmetal grey. Two keystrokes and it's off, a blank screen.

So much for turning off his phone before he turned into the street, quietly turning his spare key in the lock, trying to surprise Fujimaru. Otoya had walked in on Fujimaru watching porn. 

Porn with women. And guns.

"It's a prop gun," Fujimaru says. "It can only fire blanks." He's sitting on his calves, got his pants up again, fly buttoned, with the tag of his open belt hanging down his thigh. 

Otoya makes himself look away. "Drill through the barrel and it could be lethal."

"It's not loaded." 

Fujimaru has found the gun; it's in his lap, not in his hands, but Otoya feels the sick rush of adrenaline returning. Otoya had slammed Fujimaru's hand into the floor until he'd thrown the gun away like Otoya ordered; not the best circumstances for a throw. "And, it's ok. You know?"

"What?" 

"That you like guys," Fujimaru says, like it's nothing, like it's not a secret Otoya has hidden as long as he's known it. He's always known his grandfather would be Prime Minister; it was just a matter of time. As if Otoya needed more reasons to be blackmailed or used.

"What makes you think I...?" Otoya notices he's holding his arms across his body; he makes his arms lie flat at his sides.

"Before, when we were, you know--" Fujimaru looks at the floor of his falcon's nest, the cables and the dust they were rolling in five minutes ago. "Hey, if you likes guns as much as _I_ do, that's ok, too."

Otoya shakes his head. Guns are weapons. Guns are ways to hurt someone, to kill, to threaten. Guns are very, very efficient tools. He doesn't hate them-- hate is for people, for subjects with agency-- but, guns, he's never thought about _liking_ them.

He's thought about Fujimaru, though. 

Maybe Fujimaru doesn't know he's stroking the metal of the barrel with his thumb. His fingers are nowhere near the trigger, and the only thing in the barrel's line of sight is computer equipment and the wall. Fujimaru's not looking at the gun, and that doesn't feel safe. He's looking at Otoya, and he's smiling like this is a normal social call.

Well. Normal for them. Otoya has met too many people who like to conduct social calls at gunpoint. Some of them are still alive, still at large. Looking for an empty melon soda cup somewhere in this room would mean taking his eyes off Fujimaru and the gun in his hands.

"Fujimaru," he says. "Give me the gun."

It works better this time.

The magazine is empty; it's the first thing Otoya checks. If it's a replica, it's a good one. The barrel's hollow, at least at the tip, and Otoya's not about to look down the barrel of a gun that he hasn't personally disassembled. He doesn't recognise the make; it's not the Smith & Wesson he's used at Third-I's firing range, but isn't not too different. (Otoya hasn't memorised firearm makes; he should.) Maybe a magazine catch is a magazine catch. He slides the empty magazine back until it clicks.

Fujimaru's sharp intake of breath echoes in Otoya's ears.

The colour has crept back over Fujimaru's face. It's enthralling. It's distracting. You would think years of practice would make it easier to look at Fujimaru and not think of all the things Otoya wants to do to him, but it still always hits him like the first time.

"Girls, guys, I've never thought about it, but I don't--" Fujimaru has to pause to swallow the saliva in his mouth. "I don't think that it matters. I mean, who's the holding the gun. To me."

Fujimaru licks his lips, maybe nervous, definitely interested. He's on his knees in front of Otoya, and Otoya doesn't think he's carrying another pistol in his pants. Fujimaru's on his knees, and Otoya has lied to himself long enough to recognise that Fujimaru is definitely not the only one who's interested here.

He releases a breath he'd been holding, breathes deep, once, twice, and wraps his hand around the grip. Unlike Fujimaru, he knows better than to point the gun anywhere but the floor, far away from both of them.

"Maybe... it doesn't matter to me if there's a _fake_ gun, but if we do this, we're doing this my way."

Fujimaru nods, and he sits up with his back a little straighter.

"Tell me something in this room that you're ok with me putting a bullet through."

"Eh--nn--" Not the order Fujimaru was expecting. "It's not loaded. I didn't even get cartridges."

"Answer the question."

Fujimaru points at the monitor on his desk, the one he was sitting in front of before. The screen-saver's come on, a falcon icon bouncing around a black screen. There's just wall behind the screen, exterior wall, concrete, thick. 

"It's really not loaded."

Otoya holds the pistol grip two-handed; he's always shot steadier like that. 

But there's no recoil when he pulls the trigger, no sound-- definitely no cartridge loaded-- and Otoya thinks that helps him relax more than the fact that a bullet doesn't come flying out of the barrel to shatter Fujimaru's monitor. 

Fujimaru looks like he's about to come in his pants. Otoya knows the feeling.

"You were in the middle of something?" Otoya asks. 

Fujimaru nods, quick little jerks of his head, and then his hands are on his jeans, on his fly, zip open and just enough space to work a hand inside. He moans when he touches himself. 

"Pants down," Otoya gestures with the muzzle, stalking closer. He feels like a villain in a cheap drama, a cheap porno, but Fujimaru is such shameless inspiration, the words are easy. He chides: "I can't see."

Fujimaru blinks for a few moments, and then he's scrambling to push his jeans and boxers down to his knees. He's beautifully hard, curving up into the fist he's wrapped around his cock. This is more like the pornography Otoya would watch. 

Otoya drops down to his knees in front of Fujimaru, careful to keep the gun between them. Fujimaru is staring, wide eyes, wide, dark pupils, and a stutter in the jerks of his hand. But even without a steady rhythm, Fujimaru doesn't look like he'll last long.

"Tell me when you're close," Otoya whispers. He caresses the vulnerable line of Fujimaru's neck with the muzzle. As if he were someone who would threaten Fujimaru like this, someone who might shoot, someone who took what he wanted instead of waiting years. 

"I'm close," spills from Fujimaru's mouth. "Close. Please, Otoya. Please."

"Please?" Otoya echoes, softer still, so that Fujimaru has to lean his body forward to hear. 

"Please, fuck-- please, I need--" Fujimaru's all but sobbing as he fists himself fast and rough.

Otoya raises the gun until it's poised at just the right height, presses the tip of the barrel against Fujimaru's lips. It looks uncomfortable, angles and points and hard metal against the softness of Fujimaru's opening lips. It's not something Otoya has ever thought about putting to Fujimaru's mouth, but it's still hard to have the self-control not to thrust the gun deeper. Fujimaru's eyes are watering, but his shoulder hasn't stopped jerking in time with his hand.

"Bang!" 

Fujimaru comes all over his own hand, comes nearly choking on the barrel except that Otoya pulls his gun hand away, his other arm sliding behind Fujimaru's shoulders, as his friend slumps like a puppet with all the strings suddenly cut. Fujimaru is taller, but Otoya likes it better this way.

Fujimaru's head lolls on Otoya's arm, his face angling up, and Otoya can barely feels the twinge in his shoulder, the bullet wound that healed with no visible scar. Fujimaru is glowing, sweat sheen on his forehead. It takes Otoya back to gym class in high school, sixteen when everything is awkward, and deciding for the first time to look away from Fujimaru when everything in him wanted to stare.

"Otoya?"

"Mm?"

"You got any tissues on you?" Fujimaru holds up a sticky hand.

Otoya wrinkles his nose, but his lips match Fujimaru's grin. Relaxing his grip, Otoya sets the gun on the floor and pats down his coat pockets. After that, it only makes sense to separate for Fujimaru to clean himself up. 

Otoya does watch, though. 

Fujimaru looks at his hands, where they're scrubbing scrunched up tissues against the cotton of his T-shirt. His eyes flicker to Otoya's face as often as they shoot low on the floor. Otoya puts a hand on the gun. Fujimaru's eyes skitter sideways into Otoya's lap.

"Don't you want to--?" 

Otoya's vision narrows to Fujimaru's hand, his fingers curled into his palm, the jerks of his wrist. Otoya hadn't thought that was on offer. Fujimaru isn't-- he doesn't look like someone who's just discovered that cock is everything he never knew he wanted. He doesn't look any different. He doesn't even look embarrassed that he just came sucking off a fake gun. He also doesn't look like he'll ask twice.

Otoya sits up, already half stripped out of his coat. He picks up the gun, and tells Fujimaru to sit comfortably, but legs crossed: "I'm going to have my head in your lap."

It surprises Otoya that Fujimaru just does what he says. He's not pointing the gun at Fujimaru right now. He's not even holding it in a firing grip. It's not a bad surprise.

"Cover the door." Otoya hands up the gun to a spluttering Fujimaru, and starts on his belt before Otoya can talk himself out of this. 

He has to concentrate, too many years of trying not to get caught warring with the warm press of Fujimaru's denim-clad leg behind his head. He closes his eyes and then it's easier. Otoya can remember the look on Fujimaru's face as he went over. He can still smell Fujimaru on Fujimaru's T-shirt.

"Eh--? You--? Oh..."

Fujimaru's not looking at the door. He's not looking at Otoya's face, either. 

"Eyes on the door."

Otoya likes Fujimaru watching, but he likes watching Fujimaru try not to look even more. 

Fujimaru's arms shake held straight out over Otoya's head. He's got the wrong grip. If he did shoot, the recoil would hurt. But he hasn't put in fifty hours of target practice over the last year.

No, Fujimaru's arms tremble as he holds the gun raised. Otoya has the perfect view to watch Fujimaru lick his lips, the tip of his tongue flickering at the corner of his mouth. He wonders if Fujimaru can feel Otoya's body start to shake.

Otoya rolls his head back, bites into Fujimaru's T-shirt, the fabric filling his mouth. There's a subtle aftertaste that must be what he thinks it is.

Even muffled through his shirt, Otoya's command snaps Fujimaru back to attention, back straight, arms shaking.

It's enough. It's more than enough.

Otoya comes with his eyes closed. It's habit, and habit to keep them closed for a short while afterwards, while his heart's still working fast and he's remembering how to breathe. 

Otoya spits out the mouthful of fabric, working his jaw a few times before taking pity on Fujimaru. "I think the coast's clear." 

Fujimaru's arms slacken, and he puts the gun down. His hand rests on Otoya's shoulder, heat through Otoya's thin sweater. 

Otoya's on the floor, and now that he's not desperately jerking off, he's noticing that Fujimaru's knees are bony and digging into his upper back. The floor is cold and hard. It's difficult to convince himself to get up. 

"So," Otoya says, "Did you use all the tissues?"

Fujimaru's flat turns out to have a sink somewhere under a pile of take-away containers that Otoya tips into a bin before he washes his hands. There isn't a mirror anywhere, so Otoya rakes his fingers through the back of his hair and hopes for the best. With the dust slapped off his pants and his shirt tucked back in, Otoya looks passable. 

Fujimaru just looks like Fujimaru, like he rolled out of bed somewhere between two and ten hours ago. He's put the gun away into a metal biscuit tin with "LAN cables" written over masking tape along the side. Otoya plans to buy Fujimaru a safe for his birthday.

Fujimaru's stomach rumbles.

"Can you remember the last time you ate?" Otoya asks, smiling. 

"Uh--" Fujimaru looks up at the ceiling, visibly thinking. There's a pile of energy drink cans by his keyboard. 

"I came around to ask if you wanted to get ramen," Otoya says. That feels like a long time ago.

"Yeah, ramen sounds great." Fujimaru grins back.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also comment at my [LJ](http://threewalls.livejournal.com/355296.html) or my [DW](http://threewalls.dreamwidth.org/185930.html).


End file.
